


Green-Eyed Snake: Deleted Scenes

by Tathrin



Series: Green-Eyed Snake [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deleted Scenes, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an apology for how long it's taking me to get the next part of <i>Green-Eyed Snake</i> written, I thought I'd share some short scenes from <i>Harry Potter and the Secret Keeper</i> that didn't make the cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defense Against the Dark Arts with Snape

**Author's Note:**

> This was my initial version of the scene in _Prisoner of Azkaban_ where Snape substitutes for Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts class. I've since thought better of this take on the scene, but thought I would offer it as penance and as a sort of proof that I really _am_ still working on _Green-Eyed Snake_...albeit slowly. My apologies for the delay!

The day before the match, the winds reached howling point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams were looking very smug, and Harry wasn’t the only one of his teammates to glance out the windows unhappily. Draco wore an expression of gleeful relief that Harry longed to wipe off his pointed face, but he refrained from commenting, knowing that Draco’s reserve position was still a sore point for his friend.

Their first class of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Being snug in their cozy underwater dungeons, the Slytherin students, unlike the rest of the school, rarely had any indication what the weather was until they reached the Great Hall for breakfast and Harry, feeling miserable every time he looked up at the enchanted ceiling, had dawdled over his eggs and sausage even longer than Crabbe and Goyle. He finally let Draco pull him away and they hurried for the stairs, barely sliding in the door in time.

They needn’t have hurried; Professor Lupin wasn’t even there yet. With a feeling of relief, Harry and the others took their seats and pulled out their wands, wondering what Lupin was going to show them today. Harry had meant to read ahead so he wouldn’t feel so out of place, his housemates often being at least partially familiar with the creatures they were studying from bedtime stories if nothing else, but in his focus on the upcoming Quidditch match, he had forgotten.

Harry was just wondering if he had time to pull out his book and skim the next chapter when the door banged open. It wasn’t shabby Professor Lupin who walked in, though, but the bat-like form of Professor Snape. He had a strange smile on his face, thin and pinched and a little malicious. Harry gulped.

“Put those away and take out your books,” Snape told the class. They didn’t dare groan, even though they had all been hoping for a practical lesson. He strode up to Lupin’s desk and eyed it sideways, but he didn’t sit down. “I see that Professor Lupin has not left any record of the subjects you have studied so far,” Snape sneered, although he hadn’t even bothered to look at the papers stacked on the desk.

“Hinkypunks are next, sir,” Theodore Nott offered helpfully.

“Unfortunately I cannot permit a class to be taught by its students, no matter how capable they seem,” Snape said in an oily voice, “so as Professor Lupin cannot attend today’s lesson, it shall be taught by me. You are fortunate that I have a free period this morning.” The cold pleasure in Snape’s black eyes made Harry feel uncomfortable.

He raised his hand. “Sir,” the words burst from Harry’s lips before he could stop himself, “Sir, where _is_ Professor Lupin?”

For a moment he thought Snape was going to refuse to answer. His glittering black eyes met Harry’s, and all he could think about was the potion that Snape had brought to Lupin and the unpleasant way it smoked. He felt guilty for not saying anything then, but knew it was far too late to speak-up now. If Snape _had_ poisoned Professor Lupin...what should Harry do? Tell Dumbledore? He didn’t have any proof, just fearful suspicion, and Snape was his head of house, Harry couldn’t just accuse him of poisoning another teacher...

“Professor Lupin is feeling unwell,” Snape said at last, “but it is nothing life-threatening, I am sure you will all be relieved to know.” The sour tone of his voice made it clear that Snape was far from relieved himself, but Harry’s nerves relaxed.

“Thank you,” he said, and sagged back into his seat. Snape stared at him for another moment, then turned abruptly back to Lupin’s desk. He plucked their textbook from its neatly-cluttered surface and flicked through the pages until he reached the very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t covered.

“Today we shall discuss werewolves,” he pronounced.

The class shifted curiously, but nobody except for Draco dared speak: “Beastly things,” he whispered, face curled in a sneer.

Something like a smile flickered across Snape’s lips. “Turn to page 394,” he said, and paused only a moment before asking, “Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?”

Everyone sat in uncomfortable silence, Theodore Nott already bent over his book and reading as fast as he could. Harry ducked Snape’s eyes and opened his own book. The words swam in front of him under the pressure of Snape’s impatience.

“Well, well, well,” he said cheerfully, “can this be? No one here would recognize a werewolf if they saw one? Goodness, this isn’t a good sign.”

To everyone’s shock, Goyle’s hand wandered into the air. It took Snape a moment to call on him curiously. Goyle’s raspy voice sounded very out-of-place in a classroom, but he grunted, “They got shorter snouts, right?”

“That...is correct, Mr. Goyle,” Snape said.

Everybody stared at Goyle, who put his hand down, looking very pleased with himself.

 **“** Ah...anyone else?” said Snape.

In the wake of Goyle’s unexpected academia, nobody seemed able to speak. Snape put them all to work reading the chapter and taking notes while he wandered up and down the aisles, making uncomplimentary observations about Professor Lupin’s teaching style. Harry, who knew as well as anyone that Snape was after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, kept exchanging smirks and eye rolls with Draco, both of them amused at this transparent behavior on the Potions Master’s part.

When Snape finally dismissed them with an assignment of a roll of parchment on recognizing and killing werewolves, nobody was surprised. Tracey Davis, with a look on her face like somebody hoping for a reprieve, raised her hand and asked if Snape would be covering _all_ of Professor Lupin’s classes today.

“As I have my own classes to attend to, Miss Davis, no, I will not be the only teacher inconvenienced by Professor Lupin’s affliction today,” he replied coolly. “I am afraid that I can take up only two extra periods, this fortunately for all of you being one of them. I shall see you all again at the end of the day in Potions.”

“Oh,” said Tracey, and her face fell. Harry smirked, guessing that she hadn’t gotten her Potions essay finished yet. With a sudden jolt of fear he dove into his school bag and pulled out his own essay to check it. Fortunately while the last paragraph was written very sloppily, it looked like it was at least complete. Harry sighed with relief and stuffed the essay back into his bag.

“You’re dismissed,” Snape said, when the bell rang. “Don’t forget—you hand that essay in to _me_.”


	2. A Moment with the Hinkypunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who were curious, here's a brief snippet showing the original intended follow-up to the last post:

Finally midway through lunch on Tuesday, Harry came up with a plan. He led the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, crossing his fingers that they wouldn’t have another substitute. He needed to talk to Professor Lupin.

Fortunately Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats. There was a flurry of questions, but Lupin forestalled them all with a wave of his hand.

“I’ve already heard all about it from the Gryffindors,” he said tiredly. “Don’t worry, you needn’t complete the essay. I spoke to Professor Snape as well—”

“Bet _that_ conversation went well!” Draco whispered. Harry nodded.

“—and he agrees, so there’s nothing to fret over. Werewolves will be covered in due turn, but for today—”

“But I’ve already done the essay!”

That was Theodore Nott, looking scandalized.

Professor Lupin smiled.  “Well Theodore, you may certainly hand it in to me now, but if you would like to hold on to it, I’m sure it will come in handy later this term—when we reach the subject in its appropriate time.”

Theodore sagged across his desk with disappointment, but everybody else seemed relieved. Certainly Harry was glad; he had grown-up watching too many terrible horror flicks on the telly thanks to Dudley and he suspected that he’d botched fact and fiction. His housemates laughed at his Muggle-induced ignorance enough already; the last thing he needed was to try and explain Muggle cinema as an excuse for why he didn't know anything about werewolves. From as much impression as the essay he'd written for Snape had made, Harry wasn't even sure that the full moon had any effect on Wizarding werewolves. He made a mental note to look that up later but promptly forgot once Lupin told them to put their essays away and take out their wands.

They had a very enjoyable lesson, despite Harry’s impatience for it to end. Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing the hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless-looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead—people follow the light—then—”

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.


	3. The Other Quidditch Try-Outs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original draft of the story, Pucey quit the team at the beginning of the year and try-outs were held on the first Friday after classes. His role was then taken by Warrington, until during one of my fact-check re-reads of the original book I realized that since the Gryffindor/Slytherin match took place at the end of the year, Lee Jordan's line about Flint "making some changes to the line-up" didn't make any sense if Slytherin had _already played two matches with that line-up_. It would no longer have been new by then, even though it was the first time _we_ were seeing Slytherin play. So I had to revise the situation with Pucey, having him play the beginning of the season and then drop-out before the team's last match (in this version, the one against Hufflepuff, since the Quidditch schedule was left as it normally plays unlike what happened in PoA), with Warrington only taking his place for one game. Thankfully, O.W.L.s still made for the perfect excuse...but nonetheless, this required several changes along the way, not least of which was deleting this whole scene (although parts of it were clearly re-used for the new scene about Pucey's resignation). Here is the original version, which would have taken place at the end of "The Boggart in the Wardrobe" if it had remained in the story.

Even better was getting on a broom again. Harry didn’t expect try-outs to be very interesting, because his only competition for Seeker would be Draco, and they were both already on the team. It was an excuse to fly though, and Harry would take any excuse happily. One of the worst things about the Dursleys’ house was that there was nowhere to fly. He envied Draco, whose house apparently had gardens large enough that he could have set-up a whole Quidditch pitch there, if he wanted—and no pesky Muggle neighbors to worry about!

He and Draco walked down to the pitch after dinner Friday evening, their matching Nimbus 2001s slung over their shoulders. They had left Crabbe and Goyle in the common room to struggle with their homework. Harry suspected that Draco was nervous because his friend wasn’t talking much. He didn’t know if it was because he worried that he wouldn’t make the team again—which Harry knew was silly—or because he was thinking about Sirius Black and Grims. He was careful not to ask.

They were two of the first Slytherins to reach the pitch but Marcus Flint was already there with a box containing the Quaffle, Bludgers, and Snitch that they would be practicing with. He was in heated conversation with Adrian Pucey, a fifth year boy who flew Chaser for the team. Pucey was a tall, wiry boy with sleek black hair that he wore in tight braids when he flew to keep it out of his face. Right now his hair was loose around his shoulders and he wasn’t even carrying a broom.

Flint and Pucey were standing nose-to-nose; while the Captain was much burlier than Pucey, they were practically of a height. Their faces were twisted into matching scowls, and Harry had no desire to eavesdrop on what was clearly an argument but Draco grabbed his wrist and dragged him forward when he would have stopped at the bleachers.

“Listen,” Pucey was saying, “you’re not going to change my mind. I’ve got O.W.L.s to worry about this year, all right? I don’t have time for Quidditch, too.”

“Plenty of people can manage both!” Flint snapped.

“And plenty of people’s marks suffer because they’re juggling too much,” Pucey retorted. “I’m not interested in being one of them.”

Flint smacked his shoulder. “And what are we supposed to do?”

“Find another Chaser. Isn’t that the whole point of having try-outs every year?”

“The point is to make sure there’s not anybody better, not to _have_ to replace somebody who was supposed to be on the team for three more years!”

Pucey rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I signed a contract,” he said.

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t counting on you,” Flint snarled. “You don’t just spring the news that you’re quitting the team last minute. I wasn’t planning on changing the bloody line-up this year, you tosser, you should have told me sooner!”

“Well I’m telling you now,” Pucey said. He turned on his heel and stomped off the pitch. Harry and Draco scrambled to get out of his way. “Good luck,” he muttered to them as he passed. Harry couldn’t tell if he meant it or not.

“Prat!” Flint shouted. He kicked the box of equipment and swore to himself under his breath. Harry and Draco milled about awkwardly, trying to pretend they hadn’t seen the fight and doing their best not to catch Flint’s eye. A small crowd slowly gathered, most of them taking seats in the stands to watch but a few carrying brooms. Their expressions veered between wistful and hopeful but they all kept a respectful distance from Flint and the two Seekers. Harry saw Daphne Greengrass standing in the middle of the group, her face set. He tried to wave at her but she refused to look at him. Flint was scowling at everyone, but the spectators didn't seem to think there was anything out of the ordinary about that, and they continued to joke amongst themselves while they waited for the try-outs to start. Harry wiped sweaty palms on his robes and wished he was wearing a watch.

When the rest of the team came trooping down from the castle it was a relief, even though it meant Flint had to tell them what had happened with Pucey. The news was met with unanimous outrage.

“He just quit on us?” Bole exclaimed. “That git!”

“Told you he didn’t have his priorities in order,” muttered Derrick, who like Bole had taken his O.W.L.s last year without skipping a single practice session.

“He was always too much of a stickler for the rules anyway,” Montague said. “We’re better off without him.”

Flint grunted. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “either way we don’t have him, so we’re going to need to find a new Chaser. That means full try-outs, not just flying around for an hour so we can say we gave everybody else a chance.”

That pronouncement was met with groans from the whole team, although Harry’s was forced. He was just excited to get to fly again for any reason, even a tedious one. He tried to look miserable for the sake of team unity but had to keep biting his lip to keep from grinning.

“All right!” Flint bellowed, ending the team’s huddle and addressing the other Slytherins who had come to watch or participate. “Everybody with a broom into the air! Let’s see what you can do!”

Harry, grinning, didn’t have to be asked twice.

 


	4. The Fight That Wasn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the delivery of the niffler to the Slytherins was going to be a lot more dramatic. This section picks up right after the dinner that followed Trelawney's (second actual) prediction:

Harry was preoccupied all through dinner. From the uncharacteristically muted conversations at his end of the Slytherin table he wasn’t the only one thinking about Professor Trelawney’s strange prediction. Even after two helpings of treacle it was still weighing on his mind. Draco was engaged in a whispered conversation with Theodore Nott, filling him in on what had happened during Divination, and while Harry was glad they were his friends neither Crabbe nor Goyle were stellar conversationalists. There wasn’t anyone else he felt like talking to about it—or about his growing conviction that Trelawney’s words had to have _something_ to do with Sirius Black—so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Distracted as he was, Harry wasn’t expecting to run into the Weasley twins. As fifth year students they had O.W.L. exams and studying for those ought to have kept even those two troublemakers too busy to loiter in the hallways thinking up pranks in between class, but there they stood: standing underneath some kind of canopy and smiling those horrible identical smiles.

“Step right up! That’s right, don’t be shy, prove your bravery today!”

“Impress your friends! Who wants to go first?”

Like carnival barkers, they gestured toward the wavering canvas archway they had erected while they heckled the crowd. “You there, you look like a likely young fellow, got someone special you want to impress today? No? Your loss then, but probably no one else’s—”

“How about it little lady, want to show up a bunch of older students who are too scared to brave what a first year will attempt, eh?”

“Guaranteed to earn you ten points higher on your Defense Against the Dark Arts exam or your money back—”

“—our patented, one-of-a-kind stress-destructor canopy is your sure-fire cure for all your examination woes and worries!”

“Not getting enough sleep? Can’t read your notes because your hands are shaking too much? Ready to give up and call it a loss? Don’t despair!”

“Just three steps through the archway of our little invention here and you’ll be ready for whatever life—”

“—or your professors—”

“—can throw at you! Just three sickles an entry, two each for groups of three or more…”

“This is ridiculous.” Daphne Greengrass was standing at the front of the crowd, her hands on her hips as she scowled at the Weasleys. “You’re blocking the whole hallway.”

It wasn’t quite true—there was just enough room to either side of the wobbling archway to allow one or two students to squeeze through—but given that whoever tried to slip past was immediately the primary target of the Weasley’s jibes (“too scared to walk through a curtain? How do you think that will look on your examination? At least you’ll make your friends laugh but I don’t think they add points for humorous cowardice, do they George?”) the corridor might as well have been sealed by stones.

“There’s an easy way through,” George grinned at her, “just walk straight ahead.”

“Have to pay the fee though,” Fred chimed in. “Sorry, good looks and charm don’t work on us—if you think you know anybody who has some they can spare you.”

The twins laughed; Daphne turned around and pushed through the crowd back the way she had come, her cheeks flaming. She glared at Harry and Draco as she walked past. “Somebody really ought to do something about those two,” she snapped, and stomped away to take the long way around.

“Want me to…?”

Crabbe didn’t even manage to finish his sentence before Draco was waving his hands in a quick negative. “Don’t be mental,” he hissed, “just let them grab a victim and have their fun and they’ll get bored and go away. There’s no sense giving them an excuse to—”

“Is that a volunteer I see back there?” Fred called, bouncing on his tiptoes to see over the heads of the uncertain crowd. “You trying to raise your hand, Malfoy? I hear it works better if you put some elbow into it—but then, you share classes with Hermione Granger, don’t you? So I guess you’ve never had the chance to learn how that works, have you?”

Several people laughed, either because they were familiar with Hermione or because they just liked watching someone else catch the Weasleys’ attention.

Draco flushed. “And what exactly would you morons know about class participation?” he shot back. Harry winced; Draco was normally better at coming up with sharp retorts that didn’t make him sound like a swot, but Hermione’s high grades always got under his skin.

“Is that your way of saying you want to find out what we’ve learned this year?” George asked, waggling his eyebrows as he waved expansively toward the canopied arch. “Well step right up, Malfoy, we’re all waiting to see how you do.”

“It’ll be a galleon for you and your friends—cleaning fees, you know?—but as you’re always so keen on reminding everyone you can afford that easily, can’t you?” Fred chimed in.

“You couldn’t pay me to be interested in whatever idiotic nonsense the two of you have worked up this time,” Draco sneered back, “even if you could afford to pay for things.”

He earned a few chuckles but from the dark looks on the Weasleys’ faces Harry didn’t think the barb had been worth it.

“Hiding behind your money?” George said, covering his mouth to hide an exaggerated yawn. “Get a new trick, Malfoy, that one’s older than your family’s criminal history.”

“You know, I just thought of something,” Fred said, in a tone that made Harry doubt he was being truthful. “Do you faint at the sight of a dementor too, or is that just Potter?” he asked. “Because that might be a problem for you, what with Azkaban’s guards being—you know—dementors.” He snickered, apparently very proud of himself for the revelation.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Seems to me like your father is more likely to end up in Azkaban than anyone in my family,” he drawled, “unless he’s stopped tinkering with his little Muggle toys? You know breach of the Statute is a very serious crime. Maybe you should talk to dear old dad—or are you hoping that if he gets arrested you’ll be able to sell stories about your criminal childhood to the _Prophet_ and actually have some gold in your vault for the first time ever? Because I hate to tell you, but I don’t think anyone would be interested in buying such boring, pathetic drivel.”

“And you’d know all about boring drivel, huh Malfoy?” George shot back with a smirk. “Since that’s your idea of a Quidditch career…or are you just too scared to get up on the pitch after what happened to Potter?”

“You mean how we won the Quidditch Cup?” Harry snapped. “And you lost?”

“At least none of us fell off our brooms,” Fred said. “Tell me Potter, is it hard being such a coward that you can’t even leave the school for fear of fainting fits?”

“Harry’s not afraid to leave the school,” Goyle said suddenly. “You know that, you’re the ones who—”

What Goyle might have said next, despite Harry’s frantic shushing motions, he never found out. Draco took a more proactive approach to shutting their friend up:

“I don’t like their smirks,” he said loudly to Crabbe, “go knock them off their ugly faces.”

Crabbe didn’t wait to be told twice. Anyone who didn’t get out of his way fast enough he simply shouldered aside; by the time he reached the Weasley twins they had stopped laughing—but not smirking—and started to go for their wands. Crabbe didn’t bother reaching for his but simply punched George in the stomach. Fred yelled and a loud bang sent Crabbe reeling backwards.

Goyle was ordinarily slow on the uptake but not when his friends were fighting. While everyone else was watching Crabbe fall, he was lunging forward to punch Fred in the side of his head. George straightened up, wheezing, but the jet of red light he sent flying from his wand missed Goyle by an inch and left a scorch mark on a tapestry instead. Goyle tripped, startled, and smacked the floor hard. Crabbe tackled George around the knees and the two of them rolled across the floor in a mass of kicking legs and flailing arms.

Fred dodged his brother easily and aimed a kick at Crabbe’s head; the third year boy grunted when it connected but didn’t let that distract him from trying to pummel George into paste. Unwilling to risk hitting his brother Fred stepped back from that fight and aimed his wand at Goyle instead. The bristly-haired boy had gotten back to his feet and raised his fists but those wouldn’t do anything to deflect a spell.

“STUPEFY!” Harry yelled, shoving himself through the crowd. His spell didn’t reach its target any more than George’s had but it made Fred duck, which gave Goyle time to black his eye. He retaliated so fast Harry didn’t have time to react and neither did Goyle; the next thing either of them knew, Goyle was lying dazed on the floor with antlers sprouting from his forehead.

“Get up!” Draco called encouragingly; he had worked his way to the front of the crowd and his wand was out, but he hadn’t joined the fight yet. Harry looked anxiously between the Weasley twins, trying to decide what to do next. Goyle lumbered back to his feet looking dazed, one hand prodding speculatively at the rapidly-growing antlers. “Are you going to take that?” Draco demanded. “Go on, pound him!”

Goyle grunted and lunged forward to do just that but another voice interrupted:

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here!”

A tall, thin red-head with horn-rimmed glasses perched on his long nose shoved his way through the spectators. It was Percy Weasley, Head Boy and older brother of the Weasley twins.

“Stop this right now, all of you!” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Right now!”

Harry gulped and tried to hide his wand behind his back. Goyle looked back and forth between Percy and Fred, his fists still raised. Draco had melted back into the crowd, for once willing to forgo the spotlight. Crabbe and George continued to roll around on the floor, hitting whatever bits of each other they could reach, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Percy’s command to stop. Fred straightened up and twirled his wand jauntily. “What’s up, Perce?” he asked, a cheeky grin on his freckled face.

Percy’s cheeks had gone a mottled red as he glared at both his brothers and the Slytherins they were fighting with. “What’s up?” he asked in a strangled voice. “What’s up is that you are all in big, big trouble!”

“That’ll be new,” Fred muttered. Much as Harry didn’t like the Weasley twins, he almost couldn’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it was at this point that I realized that there was absolutely no point to this scene. It was pure indulgence and it did nothing new for either the story or the characters. At first I thought about artificially inserting something character development-ish to try and salvage the scene but decided it would be better to just excise the whole thing in favor of actually moving the plot along instead of fiddling around with filler like this (fun as it was to write!). I'm sure that Harry and the Weasley twins will face each other again at some point and maybe I'll mine this for material then; until that happens, it can just sit here as a peek into a fight that never happened.


	5. Snippet from the Shrieking Shack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little bit of a scene I wrote waaaaay back when I was working on the first book, set during the confrontation between Sirius, Remus, and Peter in the Shrieking Shack. Obviously once I actually started working on _Secret Keeper_ I very early-on decided to change the climax more drastically rather than follow the original plotline exactly so there was no such confrontation, but I liked the fact that it was Draco's scheming mind that came up with the idea to save Peter, while this Harry was more than willing to watch his dad's best friends commit murder, until it was pointed out to him that it might be problematic for Sirius to not have living evidence. I toyed with the idea of finding a way to work this confrontation in to the scene where Peter escapes from Flitwick's office, but ultimately decided that--much as I did like the idea of presenting a Slytherin Harry with a life-debt from Pettigrew--it worked better if Peter simply bolts out the door, leaving Harry with little more than a glimpse of the man responsible for his parents' death rather than providing him with the small sense of closure that actually getting to talk to Peter would offer.

“Get off me! You’re the reason my parents are dead,” Harry said. “You as good as murdered them. I’d like to kill you myself if I knew the spell.”

“Well then!” said Sirius, and raised his wand. He was grinning. “Shall we, Moony?”

“Together,” said Lupin, his face set.

Pettigrew wailed and flung himself down on the floor.

“Actually...I’m not sure you should do that.”

Everyone turned to look at Draco.  Pettigrew scuttled over behind his legs and cowered there. Draco looked down at him with disgust, and edged away, lifting his robes as though Pettigrew might dirty them.

“You’re going to save this scum’s life?” Harry asked, askance.

Draco shrugged. “I certainly don’t care if they kill him,” he said calmly, “but a confession is more convincing than a corpse.”

Harry frowned. “What are you saying,” he asked, “you don’t think they’ll let Sirius go if Pettigrew’s dead? Won’t the fact that he was alive twelve years ago be enough to prove they had the wrong man?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sirius snarled, and raised his wand again.

“Up to you,” Draco shrugged. He stepped farther away from Pettigrew and met Sirius’s eyes. “What’s more important to you,” he asked his cousin bluntly, “clearing your name, or murdering Pettigrew?”

Sirius hesitated, thinking it over. Pettigrew whimpered.

“The boy has a point, Padfoot,” Lupin said quietly.

Harry frowned, wavering. Draco knew the Ministry better than he did; if his friend said that they would want living evidence, he was probably right. He told himself that Pettigrew would surely face the same fate that had been planned for Sirius once he was convicted, and that would be good enough--mostly. "Maybe you shouldn't," he told Sirius, his heart heavy. He scowled at Pettigrew and added, "Besides, if the Ministry doesn't order a fitting punishment after they know the truth, we can always take care of it on our own then."

Draco nodded. "It shouldn't be hard to arrange," he said, and Harry was sure that he was thinking of the influence his father wielded over the Ministry, not of taking matters into their own hands, but Harry still relaxed a little.


	6. Sirius's First Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Sirius's arrival in the school as Padfoot was going to be rather more dramatic, until I realized that there were a number of problems with staging such a climactic confrontation so early -- such as the fact that it undermined the teachers involved, was logistically and architecturally problematic, rang falsely against the inexplicably blasé emotional reactions of Harry and the other students afterward, created some troubling timing with the Ministry's inevitable response, and made the second confrontation during his actual capture either anticlimactic, repetitive, or both. I still like how I wrote it very much though, and mined as much as I could for the scene in the hallway by the one-eyed-witch that did get used ("kill your darlings" indeed, eh?), but most of it just wasn't salvageable without damaging the overall story, regrettably. Still, I'm glad I get to share it with all of you here!

People shouted and laughed as they pelted across the Great Hall, dog in pursuit. There usually wasn’t anyone in the Great Hall at this hour, but with the new security restrictions people had started gathering in groups to do homework together rather than staying in their common room. Harry didn’t waste time looking but he could see blurs of faces at the tables on both sides as he ran. He couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder. The dog wasn’t as tight on his heels as he had imagined; maybe it had had some trouble with the stairs. He almost breathed a sigh of relief but then his feet went out from under him and he hit the floor hard. He skidded across the flagstones and fetched up against the wall.

The dog leaped onto the Hufflepuff table and took two long bounds to Harry’s side. It snarled at Harry as he fumbled in his pocket for his wand. Then with a strange, grunting sound the dog stood up into a man.

Several people screamed.

Sirius Black, his tangled long hair wild and his black eyes glittering, lunged at Harry. Harry yelled and threw himself sideways but not fast enough to escape the madman; Black grabbed at Harry’s wrists, tugged at his robes, trying to get his hands on Harry’s wand. Harry yelled again and tried to wrench free. People all around were shouting but Harry couldn’t make out the words.

Then a thick, meaty fist connected with the side of Sirius Black’s head.

Black fell backwards and Harry pulled his legs free. He scrabbled sideways, too busy putting distance between himself and murderer to stand up. Black shook his head and looked around. Crabbe, fists raised for another blow, stepped forward.

“Out of the way,” Black snarled, reaching for Harry.

A small door behind the teacher’s table burst open. Several voices started to shout spells but another voice yelled, louder, “No—you’ll hit Harry!”

Harry saw Lupin throw himself in front of a small group of teachers. They wrenched their wands aside and multicolored jets of light sprayed into the walls in several directions. One enchanted candle fell sputtering out of the air.

“Stay back!” Black snarled, lunging at Harry again. “He’s mine!”

“Don’t you touch our friend!” Goyle shoved his way through the terrified crowd to stand next to Crabbe. Harry couldn’t see Draco anywhere but expected that his friend was sensibly keeping his head down and out of danger. That was almost better than having Draco run to his defense; if he got hurt Mr. Malfoy would doubtless blame Harry and that would be even scarier than being attacked by Sirius Black.

“Use Stunners!” McGonagall’s commanding voice rang out from the other end of the hall. “Those won’t hurt the children, we can wake them after! Move, Remus!”

“Moony?” Black said, incongruously. He looked around, startled, as if noticing the other people in the hall for the first time. His lips curled back from his teeth and he snarled as though he were still in his dog shape.

Harry pulled himself to his feet and reached for his wand again. His fingers brushed against the still-slumbering rat in his pocket. He pushed Scabbers aside and drew his wand at last. Red hot rage poured through him. He pointed his wand at Sirius Black as his mother screamed in his head. He couldn’t think of any spells but a terrible pressure was building behind his eyes, in his fingers; it seemed like for once he wouldn’t need any words to get the magic to do what he wanted.

Black’s dark eyes darted around. He hunched in on himself like a trapped animal. The teachers were approaching warily from the other side of the room; the clumps of watching students crouched fearfully on their benches or leaned around their neighbors for a better view. Suddenly Black reached out and grabbed the nearest student: little first year Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s sister. She screamed.

“No closer!” Black barked. His voice was hoarse, almost rusty, but it stopped everyone in their tracks. He had a knife, probably the same one Weasley wouldn’t shut-up about. “Don’t move or she dies!” The knife wasn’t pressed to Astoria’s throat but it was close enough to communicate the threat clearly. She stared down at it, wide eyed, and whimpered.

Black shot a desperate, longing glance toward Harry. He hadn’t lowered his wand; it was still pointing at Black, and at Astoria. He swallowed, fighting with himself. Black was trembling almost as badly as Astoria, as though the urge to risk it all and try to kill Harry now was almost more than he could bear. Harry knew exactly how he felt.

“Wands down!” Black ordered, but he wasn’t looking at Harry any more; he had turned to snarl at the approaching teachers. They froze, hesitating; McGonagall especially looked unwilling to comply. The knife twitched and so did she before she stiffly lowered her wand.

“What now?” she said tersely. “You can’t possibly get away. Best to turn yourself in—”

“Shut-up!” Most of the students gasped; the idea that anyone, even a deranged murderer, would dare tell Professor McGonagall to shut-up was almost unfathomable.

Black was inching backwards, his darting gaze torn between the teachers and Harry. He was muttering to himself. Harry could only make out bits and pieces: “So close,” and “just a little more time,” and “mucked it all up again,” and “just a few more seconds and he’d be dead…”

Harry’s gaze was locked on Black. His wand hadn’t moved. The roaring in his ears was almost loud enough now to drown-out his mother’s screams. Every step carried Black closer to the door, closer to escape. The pressure of unreleased magic was becoming unbearable. Behind him he could hear Daphne weeping quietly.

That broke through his focus; he glanced over his shoulder. Daphne was sitting on the floor next to the Slytherin table. Pansy had knelt down next to her and wrapped her arms around her friend. Millicent sat on the bench beside them, gently patting Daphne’s hair. Harry swallowed and looked back at Black but his wand wavered now at the sight of Astoria, white-faced, staring back at him.

The teachers were whispering together, most of them anyway. McGonagall stood rigidly at their front, her face bloodless save for two bright red spots in her cheeks, her eyes unblinking where they were fixed on Sirius Black. Professor Lupin had turned away and buried his face in his hands, apparently unable to watch. Snape was not among them; Harry couldn’t remember seeing him come in and was sharply disappointed. He was sure that if the Potions Master had been here, he would have been able to think of a way to stop Black from getting away.

The murderer had reached the threshold now. He paused for one last, longing look at Harry, then flung Astoria away from him. Jets of light shot out over the head the moment she hit the floor but Black had already transformed and, dog-shaped now, he went bounding away across the grounds. McGonagall led the charge after him but Harry was sure they wouldn’t be able to catch him. He finally lowered his wand, feeling sick.

All over the room people were shouting questions: how had he got in, where were the dementors, why hadn’t the come to stop him, how could he Transfigure himself without a wand?

Harry was shoved out of the way as Daphne, sobbing with relief, ran through the crowd to her sister. He felt suddenly guilty and looked away. It was him that Black had come here looking for, his fault that Astoria had almost been hurt, and he’d come close to hurting her himself, just to get to Black. He shoved his wand angrily back into his pocket, then jumped when something in there squirmed.

He remembered Weasley’s rat, forgotten in all the chaos, and looked around for Hermione.

Before he could find her the teachers came back inside, looking winded. Professor McGonagall barked instructions and spells in quick succession, sealing the doors against a second intrusion. Sprout scurried around the room, comforting students and restoring order. Lupin stood by McGonagall aimlessly, wand limp at his side. He looked stricken, almost sick.

“…no idea how he got onto the grounds,” McGonagall was saying as Harry sidled up to eavesdrop, “but of course we don’t have dementors on the doors until dark. I don’t think any of us expected him to just charge in!” Her cheeks were still very pink.

Professor Flitwick shook his head and sighed. “Such a shame,” he squeaked, “but at least no one was hurt. I’ve already sent for Poppy to take a look at Miss Greengrass, make sure she’s not too shaken…”

“The rest of us will organize a search of the grounds,” McGonagall said firmly. “I suppose we’ll have to coordinate with the wretched dementors to do it, but there’s no avoiding the fact that he’s made it through their guard somehow—”

“I have to talk to Professor Dumbledore,” Lupin said suddenly, his voice almost as hoarse as Black’s had been. The other teachers stared at him, taken aback. “I, I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I have to—I have to go.” He hurried away, not looking at anyone.

Harry blinked at the retreating Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, disappointment rising in him. He knew Lupin wasn’t a fraud like Lockhart had been, but he’d always thought he was brave as well as knowledgeable, but here he was running away. Of course Black was terrifying, but—hadn’t Lupin been friends with Harry’s dad? He ought to want revenge too, Harry thought angrily.

Squirming at his side distracted him and he forced himself to push thoughts of Black aside. He had almost died getting this rat back to the castle, he wasn’t going to lose it now. One hand pressed tightly over his pocket to keep Scabbers in place, Harry pushed his way through the clumps of frantic students toward the Gryffindor table. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to find no trace of Hermione. Weasley wasn’t there either but his little sister was.

Ginny Weasley was helping to pick fallen books and quills off the floor and she was talking very fast to a blonde girl that Harry didn’t recognize.

“Er,” said Harry.

Ginny looked up at once. She looked shaken, like everybody else, but it was a far cry from the bloodless terror he remembered from last year. When she saw Harry a little crease of worry folded between her brows. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

“What?” said Harry. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m fine. He didn’t, er, didn’t get a chance to do anything to me.” He shifted awkwardly and squeezed his pocket tighter. “Listen, I’m looking for Hermione, do you know where she is? I have—there’s something I need to give her. Quickly.”

Ginny frowned but didn’t waste time asking questions. “I think she’s in the library,” she said. “That’s where she usually is until curfew. She says the common room is too noisy to study in.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and almost ran over Draco as he turned to leave.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked just like Ginny had, although much less calmly.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “Honest. Come on, we need to get to the library.”

“The _library?”_ Draco repeated incredulously. He fell into step behind Harry, probably more out of curiosity than anything else.

“I want to get this rat to Hermione before they lock the school down again,” Harry explained as they jogged up the stairs. Heavy footfalls made him turn but it was just Crabbe and Goyle hurrying to catch up. Harry suddenly felt awkward. “Um—thanks, by the way,” he said. “For—you know—back there.”

Crabbe nodded seriously. “No problem,” Goyle said, and smiled.

Harry forced an answering grin but it felt strange on his face. He avoided looking at Draco at all.

Fortunately running up five flights of stairs and down a number of hallways left none of them with much breath for speaking. Harry hoped that by the time they could relax there would be no need to talk about anything uncomfortable.

They had to slow down when they hit the library doors; not even Crabbe would willingly upset Madam Pince, the school librarian. She looked up from her desk and scowled at them as they entered. It didn’t seem that she had heard about the commotion yet. “The library is closing in fifteen minutes,” she snapped at them.

“We know,” Harry said quickly, “we’ll only be a minute.”

Madam Pince eyed them suspiciously but didn’t say anything else. Harry could feel her eyes on the back of his neck until the turned a corner into the stacks. “Look around for Hermione,” he told his friends. “We have to hurry. I don’t think we’ve got fifteen minutes.”

The others nodded and moved away down different shelves. Harry, nursing a hunch, made a beeline for the Arithmancy section. Sure enough Hermione was there, the table she was sitting at piled high with books and parchment. Harry sighed with relief and jogged over to her.

“Hermione!” he hissed. “Hermione, look what I’ve found!”


End file.
